


Kiss Me, Kill Me

by dweadpiwatemeggers



Series: Emerald and Bronze [2]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Pining, The Righteous Fury of one Charlotte Langford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweadpiwatemeggers/pseuds/dweadpiwatemeggers
Summary: A kiss. A bad reaction. The aftermath, and how Unit Bravo deals with the potential loss of Detective Charlotte Langford from their little group.
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: Emerald and Bronze [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948069
Comments: 130
Kudos: 135





	1. Charlotte

**_The Warehouse Common Room_ **

It was inevitable that one of their discussions - she refuses to call it an argument, an argument between the two of them would have been heated, tempers flaring and hands thrown in the air and someone storming off in a huff - would have ended like this. A discussion was all soft words and longing glances and standing in each other’s space, a little closer each time. Eventually it was going to lead to what it finally had: Adam’s fingers gently cradling the back of her neck, thumb stroking her cheekbone, other hand at her hip, eyes drifting shut as he bends towards her, her hands on his shoulders for balance as she lifts onto her toes to meet him. 

The first kiss is gentle, the barest brush of skin against skin. Almost nothing, but it still causes her knees to buckle, grateful for the solidity of him, that she can stay upright. The second is more certain, his mouth moving against hers with a purpose. By the third, analysis is out the window, and she loses herself entirely in sensation: the feel of his hands, large, square, the taste of him when their mouths open, the way the touch of his tongue makes her shiver, the slight brush of barely-there stubble against her cheek when he moves to pull her closer against him. She loses herself so entirely that she forgets the unwritten rule ‘Don’t remind him,’ and a whispered, whimpered, “ _ Adam _ ” escapes her as she takes a breath.

Suddenly there’s nothing to balance against anymore. Her heels hit the ground, sending shockwaves up into her knees, her eyes flying open. He’s four steps away, chest heaving, staring at her. 

_ Oh. _

“I’m sorry.” He says. It’s whispered. It may as well be shouted, for all that she can hear anything else.

_ No. _

“This was a mistake.”

_ Oh God. _

She blinks at him, once, twice, then turns on her heel what little dignity she can muster. A tactical retreat of storming out of the room rather than the flight of a tearful run. The tears are there; she can feel the telltale burn in her nose, the stinging in her eyes. Oh yes, they’re there. But she would brave Superior in a November gale before she let him see that.

Her room isn’t far; her bag only half unpacked. She was supposed to stay a night or two. That... No.  _ No. _ That would not be happening now. She stuffs everything back in the bag, heedless of where it lands on the carefully folded piles, only caring that it’s packed. The strap is thrown over her shoulder when she finishes.

She slams the door behind her and flinches at the sound. Someone would have heard that. She needs to be out before they check. Quick then. Not running. She refuses to run. But quick. She swipes a hand under her eyes to wipe the gathered tears away.

_ Get to the car. You can cry at home. _

She stumbles a little on the uneven ground at the surface. Fumbles her keys as she looks for the fob to unlock the doors. Finally gets it. Just about rips the driver’s side door open. Tosses her overnight bag over the console and into the passenger’s seat. Slams the door shut behind her. Turns the key in the ignition and prays that today is not the day that the old girl refuses to start. Thanks whatever gods are listening that today is indeed not that day. She rests her head back against the seat, eyes closed, and takes a deep breath. Another. She puts the car in drive and settles with a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, 10 and 2, like always.

_ Just get home. _


	2. Nate

**_The Warehouse Library_ **

Nate had been lost in the pages of an absolute brick of a historical fiction novel that Charlotte had recommended as “complete trash, but compelling trash,” when the sound of a door slamming pulled him out of Ptolemaic Egypt and back into reality.

A door slamming.

It could have been Morgan, fed up with Farah’s antics. He hopes it was Morgan. 

He sighs, and slips a bookmark between the pages. It could have been Morgan, of course, but Charlotte and Adam had been working together on some new initiative of the Mayor’s that required the assistance of the Police Department and the Agency. Once it became evident that his presence was not required, he had quietly excused himself from the room, shuffling Morgan and Farah out ahead of him. Morgan had gone willingly. Farah had required some encouragement. He wasn’t even sure either Charlotte or Adam had noticed; the tension between the Detective and their leader was bordering on tangible these days. There was an Agency pool going on when it would finally snap and how. Even Rebecca was aware of it, although she had politely declined to place a bet. The two of them working on something together always led to an increase in that tension, and, he glances up to where the library door had needed to be replaced some time ago, Adam did have an unfortunate habit of slamming doors when agitated.

He really, truly hopes it was Morgan.

He places the novel on the table in front of him. It would be irresponsible not to investigate. Although, given that he can already hear someone coming down the hall, it doesn’t seem as though he’ll have to go far. The steps are too close together for Morgan, and too heavy for Farah. He manages to get to the door in time to see Charlotte storming past, looking straight ahead, back ramrod straight, both hands gripping tight on the strap of the overnight bag tossed over her shoulder.

As she passes out of sight, Farah rounds the corner, and points down the hall in the direction the detective had just gone down. “What’s that about?”

Nate doesn’t have an answer, at least, not a concrete one. Given the personalities of those involved, he can hazard an educated guess. But then, Adam and Charlotte usually part ways in frustration, not distress. And if Charlotte looks like that, then Adam...He needs to know, needs to help. But…

He knows Adam, has had the pleasure of knowing Adam for the better part of three centuries. His oldest friend is probably either on his way to, or already in the training room, with the aim of reducing dummies to stuffing and splinters. Charlotte…

“Keep an eye on him,” he jerks his head down the hall where their leader will likely end up, if he isn’t there already. “Get Morgan to help. Don’t say anything about it. Let me know if he leaves.”

He waits for Farah’s nod before he bolts from the building, getting to the security fence in time to see Charlotte slam herself into her car. He sighs, relieved. He’s not too late then. She’ll be easy enough to follow, so long as he keeps to the trees.

He does just that, and he’s grateful that all she does is go back to her apartment. It will be easier to talk to her there, rather than some of the other places she could have gone. He watches her leave the car, walk into the building. His eyes flick to her window, and he waits for the lights to come on.

They don’t.

Well, it is her apartment. She can probably navigate it in the dark, if she so chooses. He gives her a little time to get settled instead, before entering the building and knocking on her door.

There is no response.

So he tries again, knocking a little harder.

Still nothing. But he can hear something. He leans closer. It’s very muffled, but it does sound like...crying.

He knocks again, more urgently this time. He had never seen her cry, not after she’d been taken by Murphy, not even after Adam had been taken down by the Trappers. She’d been ghost-pale then, and barely responsive, but he had not seen her shed a single tear.

“Charlotte?” he calls, as loudly as he dares, considering the time, the neighbours, hoping she can hear him. “It’s Nate.”

At first, there’s nothing, and he wonders if she’s ignoring him, or if she genuinely can’t hear. He begins to contemplate the unpleasant possibility that he may have to call her, while standing outside her door. But then, he hears movement inside, the creak of furniture, shuffled steps, like someone dragging their feet, the click of a lightswitch. The door opens.

Nate had always been aware of the objective fact that Charlotte Langford was rather shorter than average height, but from the day they had met, that fact had been negated by the sheer strength of her personality. She was too much of a force to be reckoned with to be anything but large in his mind, regardless of her stature.

The woman standing in front of him is...small. Tiny, even, hunched over, her arms wrapped around herself. Even in the dimly lit hall, he can see the tear tracks running down her face, the blotches on her complexion, the redness of her eyes.

“Oh,  _ Charlotte _ .” Instinctively, he opens his arms to her, and she falls into them, clinging to him like a child to their mother after a nightmare. He holds her on the threshold of her apartment as her tears begin to soak his shirt, offering what little comfort he can.

_ Adam, what the blazes have you done? _


	3. Adam

**_The Warehouse Common Room_ **

His hands tingle, itch with the feeling of having her under them. The back of his right hand burns where her silk-smooth hair slips over it. He doesn’t even try to stop himself this time, the tiny voice in his head crying ‘ _ don’t _ ’ drowned out by the sound of her heart pounding, the scent of her, almonds and coffee and that element that runs underneath it all, temptation incarnate. He can’t stop himself this time, eyes drifting shut as he bends to brush his lips against hers, feels her hands brace on his chest as she rises on her toes.

They meet, and  _ oh _ , this must be what the heaven denied to him must be like. To have permission, to be allowed to take her in his arms and put his lips on hers. To be allowed to do it again, because he does, when she responded so positively to the first, a second kiss. And a third, transported to paradise completely in the feeling of his thumb rubbing over her hip, her hands running up to his shoulders, the taste of her when her mouth opens, the way she leans against him as though his kisses leave her weak, the soft whimper when he pulls her closer against him. There is nothing but them, but this, until she breaks away to breathe, and he hears his name, whispered against his lips.

And suddenly the voice in his head grows so immense that it can be heard over all else. ‘ _ STOP THIS _ .’ 

What the hell is he doing?

He drops his hands away, retreats to a safe distance. From there, he watches her eyes open, confusion crossing her features.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  _ I shouldn’t have done that.  _ He can’t think of any other way to express it. 

“This was a mistake.”  _ It’s my fault _ , he means.  _ I should never have allowed it to go this far. _

She is staring at him, large brown eyes blinking once, twice, and her expression shifts from confusion into understanding. Then he sees the split second where it crumples into pain, before she whirls on her heel and storms out of the room.

What the hell has he done?

**_The Warehouse Training Room, Several Hours Later_ **

Usually training, doing drills, provides clarity. Usually, it allows himself to disengage from his thoughts, to lose himself in a world that is pure physicality, the body alone, to focus without focusing on activities that are more memory than plan.

Usually.

_ I should never have kissed her _ . 

He keeps forgetting to pull his punches.

_ I should never have let her leave. _

He’s not doing much better with his kicks.

_ I never should have kissed her. _

The splinters of broken training dummies are scattered underfoot.

_ I never should have let her leave _ .

It’s become his mantra.

_ I never should have kissed her _ . He’s lost track of how many times his knuckles have split and healed.  _ I never should have let her leave. _ At least it’s helping to erase the feeling of holding her.

Round after round,  _ I never should have kissed her _ , there is no certainty, only the knowledge of the taste of the forbidden fruit. Drill after drill,  _ I never should have let her leave _ , he goes to war with the room in place of his feelings. And still there is no certainty, only her mouth under his and her body in his hands and the way she whispered his name ringing in his ears. It ends with him sweating hard and out of the breath he doesn't really need. Without answers, he is left standing in the centre of the bloodless carnage of his shattered training partners. 

He doesn't hear anyone enter, still living and reliving that moment, or momentary lapse, he still isn’t sure which. But someone does, and they sigh heavily, and Adam feels a familiar hand on his shoulder. He allows himself to be guided to the bench. They've done this before, he and Nate.

“How long?” he asks. Nate’s hand is still on his shoulder. He focuses on it, lets the weight of it, the reassuring squeeze, pull him out of the past, be his anchor to the present.

“About six hours.”

They sit in the comfortable silence of old friendship for a time, looking over the room. The words  _ I’m glad you’re here _ and  _ Where else would I ever be? _ not needing to be spoken, but exchanged anyway in the way Adam braces his arms on his knees to rub his face, the way Nate passes him a towel without question. 

Eventually, Nate brings his hands together, rubbing at a palm with the thumb of the other hand, “I spoke with her.” Adam keeps his eyes forward. He can see Nate looking at him out of the corner of his eye, can picture the look of concern without needing to see it in its entirety.

“What did she tell you?” he asks, and his voice cracks, a little, towards the end. He isn’t sure he wants to know.

Nate shifts, stretching his long legs out into the room. “She said that it was between you and her.”

Adam’s eyes snap over to his friend. There's something in Nate's voice, the careful way he’s choosing his words; he’s not lying, not exactly, but he’s never been much good at hiding his feelings, at bluffing, either. He's not telling the whole truth.

“What happened?” Nate continues, before Adam can press the issue.

Adam looks away again, rubs his hands over his hair and whispers, “I kissed her.”

“And?”

“And then I told her that it was a mistake.”

Nate blows out a long breath beside him, and looks up to the ceiling. “Was it?”

There is a long pause.

“I don't know.”

Nate reaches over to squeeze his shoulder once more, and Adam can feel the sympathy rolling off of him. It’s uncomfortable. Undeserved. He stands. “I should clean up,” he says. He means  _ thank you _ .

Nate gets to his feet, “I’ll help.” Adam knows it means  _ always _ .


	4. Charlotte

**_The Detective’s Apartment, that night_ **

Eventually, she calms enough to release poor Nate’s ribs, and steps back to see the disaster she’s made of his shirt. “Oh  _ God _ ,” she uses the palm of her hand to wipe away what traces of tears didn’t make it into the puddle currently soaking his abdomen, “Oh God, Nate. Your shirt. I’m so sorry.”

He waves her concerns away with a gentle hand, looking down at her with a slight frown, “The shirt is of less concern than what happened to you, my dear.” With the same hand, he gestures to the couch visible from the doorway, “May I?”

She nods, stepping back to let him into the apartment, “Yeah, yeah.” She rubs a hand over half of her face, muttering to herself, “Oh my God, we’ve just been standing in the doorway,” as she closes the door. 

Nate settles himself as gracefully as ever on her Louis XV inspired loveseat; she flops down next to him, and tucks her legs up under her, hands twisting in her lap. She can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to think of a polite way to broach the subject. But really, is there a polite way to ask, ‘Why did I find you in your apartment in a puddle of your own tears when you were supposed to be staying in the room that Farah and I worked so hard to set up for you tonight?’

Eventually, he reaches over to take one of her hands, rubs his thumb across the back of her knuckles comfortingly, “I’m so sorry, but I have to ask.”

“I know,” she looks up from where their hands are joined and into his soft brown eyes. God, but it would have been easier if she had fallen for him, with his open face and his heart on his sleeve. It would have been so much easier. “But it’s between me and him, Nate.”

He sighs, and nods his acceptance of her answer. She wonders if maybe it was the answer he had been expecting. “Did he hurt you?”

She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. Yes. He had. Crushed her heart to pulp within her chest and left her barely breathing, blinded by the pain. “Not physically,” she says instead. 

His face falls because he understands what she’s saying, and she feels a little sympathy for him, because it’s his oldest friend that did this to her, one of his newest, and that can’t be an easy position for him. Still holding her hand, he reaches an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into his comforting warmth. He gives her a squeeze, and she’s grateful, so grateful, that it was him who came.

“Don’t tell him you found me like this,” she whispers.

He pulls back a little, and she looks up at him. “It would kill me if he knew.”

He just sighs, and nods his agreement, and she tucks her head back against his shoulder.

**_Wayhaven Police Station, A few days later_ **

It had been… well… at least she wasn’t crying herself to sleep anymore. The shock had worn off. And really, what else had she been expecting. It was always one step forward, one step back, turn around and run headlong in the other direction with Adam. This was just the latest in a string of similar events. And this time, this time was the last time. She wasn’t doing this again.

And anyway, there was work to do. A lot of work. So she launched herself into it wholeheartedly. If she had been feeling introspective, she would have wondered if over-work in response to distress was a trait inherited from Rebecca, or one learned from long experience. She wasn’t. There had been enough introspection over the past few days. Now it was time to just knuckle down and get things done. Productivity has always been a powerful distraction for her.

So much so that she doesn’t notice the person standing in her doorway until they clear their throat.

She looks up over the top of her reading glasses. 

It’s him.

Because of course it is.

She looks back to the report on her screen, fingers seeking out the keys as her mind tries to remember the phrase she had been working on, “Is there a problem?”

She sees him shift from foot to foot out of the corner of her eye. She hasn’t invited him in. It isn’t really a rule that applies to vampires, not in the mythological way, at any rate, but some of them, at least, are bound by manners, including him. It doesn’t matter. Let him stand in the doorway. She has no intention of inviting him in. This isn’t going to be a social call.

She hears his deep intake of breath, “No. I…”

She cuts him off, still not looking up, “Is there a situation I need to be made aware of?”

“Charlotte...” his voice is soft, almost pained.

Her eyes snap up at that, at the sound of her name on his lips. Her eyes snap up and she can feel the blood beginning to boil in her veins. She whips her glasses off and tosses them on the pile of papers on top of the desk. How dare he. After what he did. To come to her like this. To use her  _ name _ . How  _ dare _ he. She stands, her hands braced on the desk and she stares him down. 

“As you rightly pointed out,” - and her tone is sharp enough to cut glass, though she isn’t speaking much above a whisper. She knows he’ll hear every word anyway - “in this very office, no less, we are colleagues, and as such, your preference would be the use of titles. I haven’t lost mine.” She gestures to the screen in front of her, “In fact, I am attempting to fulfill its duties at the moment. If nothing is either amiss or needs to be brought to my attention,  _ Commanding Agent du Mortain _ ,” she fairly spits the words out, “I would ask that you stop wasting my time.”

There is a fleeting expression of...something, remorse, maybe, on his face, before he smooths out his mask, as he always does. But she’s still wounded, and she knows she’s hit a nerve, drawn blood, and she drives for that point. Let him see how he likes it. “I trust you’re able to see yourself out,” she finishes.

She sees his sharp intake of breath, his tight nod. “Of course, Detective.”

She doesn’t miss the hurt in his tone. She’s glad of it. It’s the first thing that’s brought her anything resembling satisfaction in a few days.

He shuts the door behind him when he leaves. She collapses into her chair, buries her face in her hands. Just for a moment. She takes a deep breath, hands smoothing her hair back into place, glasses settled back on the bridge of her nose. There’s work to do.

Her blinds are down, so she wouldn’t have been able to see if he looked back, even if she had looked up.


	5. Morgan

**_Laycott Bar and Grill, a few weeks later_ **

It’s a Wednesday, it’s a little after 4:30 pm, and Morgan is sprawled out in a corner booth in the mostly empty bar, with a bottle of beer and a booth to herself, keeping an eye on their detective. Nate has the three of them, himself, Farah, and Morgan, on what Farah has taken to calling “ _ Charlotte watch _ ”. It’s stupid. Charlotte’s human, sure, and a bit fragile, like all humans, but she isn’t an idiot. And she’s kind of boring. She goes to work, she goes home, she feeds her cat, she reads a book. The most exciting thing she does outside that is have a pint or two and split a basket of chicken wings at the bar with Officer Bobblehead. Like she’s doing now. But Nate is worried, and when he’s worried he starts clucking. And it’s so much easier not to argue with him when he’s like that, because it just makes him worse. 

Besides, she’s had worse assignments than sitting in a quiet bar with a beer and an assurance that no one will take her table if she goes for a smoke. The good citizens of Wayhaven are taking a cue from their mayor, and making sure that Unit Bravo is welcome everywhere they go.

Well, they  _ were _ , anyway. Sure, Nate, Farah and herself are still getting the royal treatment, but Adam? She smirks to herself as she takes a pull from her bottle. The gossip mill must have gotten a hold of  _ something _ there, because Adam can barely show his face in public without getting glared down by everyone and their dog. Somehow, these people had figured out that whatever had gone down between him and Charlotte hadn’t gone well, and they were doing their best to freeze him out. It would be kind of funny, if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

...It was still kind of funny.

She tunes into the conversation happening between Wayhaven’s finest at the other side of the bar. It’s kind of her job at the moment. And there’s not a whole lot else to pay attention to around here.

“Are you honestly telling me,” Tina is gesticulating vigorously with a chicken wing, “that if that gorgeous slab of beef came crawling to you on his hands and knees, begging for your forgiveness, you’d tell him to keep crawling?”

Morgan snorts at the description of Unit Bravo’s commander, and decides that Tina, in spite of her hair, is not the worst. She has a way with words, at least.

“Ignoring how incredibly unlikely that is...” Charlotte begins, before Tina cuts across her.

“Is it though?”

“It really is.” Charlotte’s response is firm.

For anyone else, Morgan thinks, for anyone else, she’d be dead on. But for her...who knows. If anyone could get Adam to bend far enough to beg for forgiveness, it would probably be her. And what she wouldn’t give to have Farah film that.

There is a lull in the conversation, as the pair begin to make a dent in their shared basket.

“You know what you need?” Tina asks, suddenly.

“A refill?” Charlotte responds, contemplating her empty glass

_ To get laid?  _ Morgan thinks.

“A vacation!”

“Tina.” 

“I’m serious!” Tina exclaims. “You never take time off, and this town is the size of a shoebox - you have to be around him all the time! Take a day. Me and Douglas can cover for you. Hell, Douglas would probably do it all himself if  _ you _ asked. Go down to Toronto and sniff some old books or lick some statues or…” - Tina gestures vaguely with the chicken bone in her hand, and Morgan snorts a small laugh - “whatever it is you do for fun.”

Charlotte sighs, but it looks like she might be caving, “Rocks, Tina. Archaeologists lick rocks.”

“Statues are carved from rock, Char,” Tina retorts with a grin and Charlotte laughs.

“I’ll ask the Captain,” she says in the end. Morgan stiffens, and takes another swig of her beer. Adam’s not going to like that. And she has no interest in watching the detective in the big city.


	6. Farah

**_Agency Facility, Wayhaven, Two Weeks Later_ **

It had been funny to tease Adam about his feelings for Charlotte before. Kind of. Mostly. When he wasn’t getting too up himself about it all. It was, like, the one thing that she had ever seen get him flustered, so obviously she  _ had _ to say something about it. As often and as obviously as possible. And if it embarrassed Charlotte a bit too? Bonus points! Their detective could be almost as work-focused as him, she could use a bit of loosening up. It was team bonding! You only tease the people you  _ really _ care about, after all.

But ever since that night… Farah didn’t know what happened, exactly, no one would tell her, but she got the gist: something happened, Charlotte wasn’t coming around unless she had to anymore, and their almighty leader was absolutely and unbearably miserable. Like, ‘teen girl in a rom-com whose boyfriend left her for someone else,’ miserable. Like, ‘my dog died,’ miserable. Like, ‘I don’t want to be in the same room as him, he brings the vibes down so hard,’ miserable.

And it just got worse when he found out that Charlotte was taking a long weekend away from Wayhaven. Without them. But with Unit Alpha. H’oooooh boy, had that been a rant. He’d been all “irresponsible,” this and “her welfare is my -  _ our _ assignment,” that. It had been one of his best. She should have recorded it. She  _ really _ should have recorded it, it was that good. Never mind that Charlotte was such a goody-goody that she’d filled out all of the right paperwork, crossed every i and dotted every t, booked a train ticket so she wouldn’t have to drive in the snow, and handed the Agency an itinerary that looked more like a schedule -  _ who gives themselves a schedule for a vacation? _ \- their almighty leader had tried to convince everyone that it was a terrible idea.

All he’d managed to convince them was that he was pining for her harder than ever. But nobody was saying  _ that _ out loud. 

Alpha was good at what they did! That’s why they were Alpha! And looking over the itinerary, it should have been an easy job - museums, art galleries, an aquarium. It was all quiet, open spaces, full of quiet, slow-moving people. Places where a kidnapping or whatever would be really obvious. Not like trying to protect someone in a packed nightclub, or a concert or something.

Of course, everyone was so worried about the threat of the supernatural, that nobody had even considered if she needed to be protected from the mundane. Like slipping on an unsalted patch of ice and falling down a flight of concrete stairs. So, like… the really,  _ really _ mundane.

Yeah...Adam really hadn’t reacted well to that phone call. And Nate was going to have to get a replacement for that shelf in the common room. 

So here they all were in the hospital wing. Again. Waiting for the Detective to be released. Again.

Morgan wandered off when it became clear that Charlotte was awake and moving around and obviously fine. Nate and Rebecca are talking to the doctor about whatever doctor stuff needs to be talked about. And Adam has gone full statue, and he’s glaring at a spot on the wall so hard that she’s surprised he hasn’t melted a hole in it yet. 

And  _ oh man _ for a guy who isn’t moving  _ at all _ , is he ever  _ feeling _ . It‘s like being hit by one of those obstacles on that reality TV show, where everyone’s constantly getting knocked into the water.  _ Bam _ \- there’s guilt.  _ Whump _ \- there’s shame.  _ Thwack  _ \- oop, there’s the longing.  _ Boff _ \- regret.  _ Bonk _ \- loss.

_ Loss?  _ Farah rolls her eyes.  _ Seriously? It’s a broken ankle and some glue in her hair. _

Still, she moves to stand beside him and pats him on the back, right between his shoulder blades. She almost,  _ almost _ makes a comment about melodramas, or soap operas, but she manages to hold  _ that _ in. 

“She’s going to be ok,” she says instead. She does not add  _ you big dummy _ . She could have! She really could have, but she is also  _ really _ trying not to make things worse. At least, not right now.

The Adam-shaped statue she’s patting is totally unresponsive.

“You should talk to her,” she continues.  _ Instead of just brooding around the Warehouse like a kid who got shot down by his prom date _ . She doesn’t add that either. She’s really doing great with the whole restraint thing today.

He doesn’t move, but at least he responds. “She has made it quite clear that she does not wish to discuss anything outside of Agency or police matters with me.”

And now sorrow.  _ Wonderful. _ She frowns up at him, “I think you should try anyway.”


	7. Charlotte

**_The Warehouse Common Room, Several Days Later_ **

A broken ankle. This is why she never takes vacation. Three days off for some R&R and she comes back with a broken ankle and a round the clock protection detail because there’s a price on her head and she can’t exactly hobble away at any great speed. Maybe she could just brain an attacker with a crutch instead, but that’s a bit beyond her basic combat training.

This is the last time she takes Tina’s advice. She’s fairly certain she’s said before. She means it this time.

At least she’s still being kept in the loop. Rebecca made sure to include her specifically, even if she isn’t entirely sure why she’s here. She avoids looking at Adam, standing in his usual place by the fireplace, as she sits in one of the armchairs. It would be hard to get a peek in, anyway, what with Nate’s fussing over her while trying very hard to look like he isn’t fussing, and Farah watching her like a cat tracking a nice, fat pigeon. Morgan is acting blessedly unconcerned, perched in a dark corner. 

_ Thank God it’s her turn to babysit tomorrow. I might actually have space to breathe. _

“The situation has changed with the coven,” Rebecca explains, and Charlotte isn’t entirely sure why she’s here. The witches in question are a long way from Wayhaven, and they have requested some assistance with something apparently outside of her clearance level. “They’ve requested assistance from the team that worked with Detective Langford.”

She frowns, processing the fact that a coven of witches halfway across the continent know her by name. “Just the team, though,” she looks to Rebecca to confirm. “Not the detective?”

Her mother nods. “Correct.”

“Then, while I appreciate being kept in the loop,” she offers a slight nod of acknowledgement to Rebecca for her efforts, “I don’t see how I can help with this.”

Rebecca accepts the nod. “Your protection, and that of Wayhaven, is still Unit Bravo’s primary assignment.” She continues, “It has been decided that Agent Sewell will take the team to meet with the coven. Commanding Agent du Mortain will assume all duties with regards to your protection until their return.”

She gapes at Rebecca.  _ I can’t have heard that right,  _ she thinks, even as she hears Adam’s tense, “Understood.” 

_ No, apparently I heard that right _ .  _ Christ. _

Her feelings must show on her face, because Rebecca is looking over at her with some concern, “Is that a problem?”

_ No, no problem. Who wouldn’t want to spend nearly every waking minute crammed into a small apartment with the person who kissed them and then rejected them within the span of, oh, 30-60 seconds? Why would that be a problem?  _

But she is not losing face like this, not in front of Rebecca, and definitely not in front of him. Not a goddamn chance.

“No,” she shakes her head, impressed with her own ability to keep her tone neutral.

“Good.” Rebecca nods, her mind clearly already with the rest of her briefing notes for the team, “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.” 

She recognizes a dismissal when she sees one. Charlotte gets to her feet, and begins making her way to the agency vehicle she and Nate had ridden to the Warehouse in. She feels, rather than hears, Adam following her, completely silent in spite of his bulk, like the world’s most corporeal ghost. He opens the door of the SUV for her and hovers awkwardly as she hauls herself into the passenger seat - like he’s not sure if he should be offering help. It takes a bit of work, these SUVs aren’t exactly close to the ground, and she’s only got one good leg, but eventually she manages, pulling her crutches up beside her. He closes the door, and she pinches the bridge of her nose as he walks around to the driver’s side.

It’s going to be a long day.

**_The Detective’s Apartment, Evening, Three Days Later_ **

She has about two-and-a-half nerves left, each of them frayed, and his continued existence in her space is getting on all of them. 

He has her coffee ready at the table in the morning, before she’s finished getting dressed. Exactly the way she likes it. He has Timbit’s feeding schedule memorized, has the cat food in the bowl exactly on time, before she can even stand up to get it. He has the bottle of painkillers in front of her before her reminder alarms go off. Yesterday, her lunch had been delivered to her desk before she even placed the order at Hayley’s. He knew her order. And that she ordered from Hayley’s on Tuesdays. All without her having to say a goddamn word.

She’s barely had to lift a finger for herself in three days. In any other context - well, mostly in the context she’d thought they’d been in a few months ago - it would have been kind of sweet. Maybe. 

Now it’s just fucking infuriating. 

He’d swept her dinner dishes off the table and had them washed and in the drying rack almost before she could finish blinking, leaving her staring through the partition between the living space and the kitchen at him where he stands with a tea towel in his hand, drying a glass. And there’s an image that sends a lonely twisting feeling through her heart.

Like she still wants him. Like she still wants him like this. In her home. Taking care of her. Being domestic. Like maybe she’s not as over him as she wants to believe.

He catches her looking, and she turns to scowl at the wall.  _ Fuck. _

“What the hell is going on?” The words just slip out.

He turns from where he’d just finished returning her plate to its place. She hadn’t needed to tell him which cupboard. Down to two nerves, then.

“Is something wrong, Detective?” He seems perplexed. She wonders if he’s actually that oblivious.

She looks at him, gestures to the towel in his hands, “This. What the hell is going on with this?”

“You’re injured,” he says. Like that explains everything.

“I have a broken ankle. You’re acting like I’m completely incapable of doing anything for myself!”

“I was simply trying to make things easier for you.”

There really isn’t a good response to that. Because it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to say. But she’s not in a space where she needs a good response to justify being angry. She’s in a space where even a perfectly reasonable thing is more than enough to set her off, when it’s coming from him.

“For  _ fuck’s  _ sake,” she mutters, bracing her hands on the table and heaving herself to stand on her good leg. She grabs her crutches from where they lean on the wall, and twists towards the couch, turning her back on him and the kitchen. But one of the crutches catches on the table leg, and she can feel her balance slipping…

And then he’s there, hands on her elbows, gently setting her straight. She swears they linger for a second, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight, because  _ no, no they can’t be there, he can’t be touching me and I CAN’T WANT HIM TO _ , and then his hands are gone, and it’s safe to open her eyes. Safe to see him standing right in front of her with his hands extended towards her and that way he has of looking at her like he’d hand her the world on a plate if she asked for it and she can feel her arms tingling where his hands had been and her heart pounding in her chest and…

“I’m sorry.” His voice is soft. 

She presses her lips together, swallows hard, trying to get herself under control. She shrugs, not quite meeting his eye, “It’s probably better that I didn’t fall over.” She hates how choked her voice sounds. 

“That’s not what I meant.”

She closes her eyes for a brief moment.  _ Oh good. We’re doing this  _ _ now _ _. Because this is when I want to have this conversation _ . “Then what  _ are _ you sorry for?”

“For how I behaved.” He’s standing a little closer now. Is he? Maybe. Or maybe that’s just how she’s seeing him. It’s not his size. Just his...presence. He seems to drown everything else out. “That night.”

She feels the prickle in her nose, the burn in her eyes. But she will not cry in front of him. She absolutely  _ will not  _ cry in front of him. So she casts her eyes to the ceiling instead, shaking her head. 

“Charlotte.” He says her name like he always does. Reverent, like it’s sacred.

And  _ that _ does it, she feels the first drop slip down her cheek.  _ Fuck it. _ He’s seen her almost bleed out. What difference does it make if he sees her cry. 

“Why?” she whispers. It’s all she can think to ask, hopes he understands what she means.  _ Why did you do it? Which part are you sorry for? _

“I…” He’s looking down, brows knit, hands clenching and unclenching. He looks back up at her, eyes flicking back and forth as he looks between hers. “I was afraid.”

_ And you think I haven’t been? _

She shakes her head, just a little, “Did it help?”

“No.”

_ Oh God. _

She collapses back into the chair that she’d just left, too overwhelmed to react when he drops to his knees in front of her.

“I know that I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he says.

A sound that’s something like a laugh, something like a sigh, breaks through her tears. She has a brief flicker of a memory: Tina asking her a question, something about him being on his knees begging for her forgiveness, something about how she’d never believed there would be a chance that that would happen. It merges with the current situation and leaves her feeling like the world is tilting slightly. It’s all too goddamn absurd.

She rests her elbow on the table, her head on her hand as she looks down at him. He’s close enough that her toes are almost brushing his knees. “What would you even do if you had it?”

“Whatever you wished of me.”

A simple statement. That’s his way, isn’t it? The simplest statement that could mean anything or everything. But she’s tired. Tired from her pain and tired from work and and tired from heart-ache and tired from trying to parse the meaning of his simple statements. 

“What does that even mean?” she asks.

“I...If you tell me that you wish to remain colleagues, it means that. If…” she watches him close his eyes and swallow, hard, before looking back up at her, and his gaze is soft, warm, “If there was a time when we could have been something more...if that is something that you still want…”

It’s a pretty promise, but… she sighs, “It’s not just me that has to want that, Adam.”

“It isn’t just you.” He looks …young, somehow, kneeling on the floor in front of her. Young and sweet and heart-breakingly earnest and her heart lurches in her chest towards him, even as her mind screams at her to get a grip. Because how long has she been waiting to hear this. Even when she thought she was done with waiting. And she can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face, even as the tears are flowing unchecked down her cheeks.

“Goddamn it,” she huffs a little laugh, “yes. Yes. It’s something that I still want.”

He offers her a wry half-smile, “I confess, I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”

She laughs at that, feels it bubble up her throat and she rolls her eyes with relief as it escapes her lips, “And I was hoping for a quiet night, so I guess we’re both disappointed.”

His smile broadens, and she sees the hint of dimples in his cheeks as he reaches up, brushes the tears from her face with the backs of his knuckles. She feels her eyes drift shut at his touch as he whispers, “I have never been disappointed by you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a kiss prompt: One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s, and an idea floating around tumblr about Adam's reaction to a kiss.


End file.
